


The Viches

by Soupy_George



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Angst and Humor, Drug Use, Gallavich, M/M, Mickey's questionable coping techniques, Rating will change, Romance, stage fright
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-04 16:32:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4144740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soupy_George/pseuds/Soupy_George
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey, Iggy, and Mandy owe Terry Milkovich a great deal, without his insight, guidance and phenomenal guitar skills they never would have cracked the East Coast scene. </p><p>Two years on, and two albums cut, fan numbers are multiplying and The Viches are set for infamy. That is until a bad decision leaves them one member short with a string of gig-dates to keep. Mickey knows they're in a pretty tight spot, but surely Mandy's street-busking friend isn't the answer to their problem...    </p><p>**A Gallavich Rock Band AU, because post-5x12 is just too depressing.**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So this is my first foray into an "American" fandom, please excuse my accidental British English. I've tried my best to bring the z's and leave my u's at the door, but I have to say it's bloody hard work. I have a new level of respect for every American writing in Brit fandoms. I'm looking for a beta reader/grammar-cop to tweak this fic into shape if anyone is interested. 
> 
> Anyway, I'd love me some feedback if you have it,  
> George xx

**_ Prologue _ **

**_ 6th August 2024 _ **

Mickey stared at the blank document on his laptop screen, the rest of his bedroom was dark and the stark bluish-white page glared back at him, intimidating in its emptiness.

“Why the fuck did I agree to this?” he muttered quietly to himself, as he drummed his blunt fingernails next to the trackpad. He’d always been shit with words, why the hell should it be any different now?

It had been his agent’s idea – apparently publishing a biography was the thing for aging rock stars to do at the moment. Mickey was honestly just glad the trend of branding fragrances and shooting behind-the-scenes movies had passed, that would have been a complete shit-show. The movie avenue would likely lead to him getting arrested for possession, and fragrance? Laughable, no one wanted to smell like a grimy old punk.

He glowered at the screen again, thinking of all the crazy shit that had happened on their ride to success and wondering how on earth his writer was going to make it sound believable, and not like a massive brag-fest. Mickey had been instructed to start with the facts, a simple timeline from right back at the beginning.

It was difficult for him to put himself back in the head of the conflicted twenty-two-year-old he had been when things had finally kicked off, the awkwardness and insecurity of youth was never a nice thing to dwell on. Also, 2005 seemed like fucking eons ago now, but even ‘05 wasn’t really the beginning, not if this was the tale of his own personal musical journey. That story started with him and Iggy, who’d been friends since middle school and shared the sort of punch-and-make-up relationship found only in brothers, or brothers of circumstance as the case had been for them.

They’d been screwing around with music since the Dark Ages, back in ‘97 when they’d been in ninth grade. At first they’d feigned interest in the subject as an excuse to stay in the warm band practice room after school, rather than face their freezing shit-box houses, a pretty brilliant scam they’d thought. But after one winter semester the tinkering had morphed into a shared obsession.

Iggy could sing, like _really_ fucking sing, it used to amaze Mickey a bit back then. Hell, it still does now if he’s being honest. But remembering him as a lanky fourteen-year-old with a rough-as-guts home haircut and more elbows and zits than social skills or courage, the contrast was so much more extreme. Iggy had sung covers of everything from Save Tonight to Blitzkrieg Bop, and in Mickey’s opinion did a better vocal job than half the originals.

Mickey himself played strings. He’d not really _chosen_ to play the guitar, it had just been that the only working instrument the pawn shop had to sell him for under twenty bucks was a beaten up old electric guitar. Its power lead was frayed in places and its black paint job was severely chipped, but it went and that’s all he needed. The guitar turned out to be some kind of fate because the skill came naturally to Mickey, for the first time in his whole life he’d found something that didn’t seem like an uphill battle.

He remembered feeling like he was on enemy territory the rainy lunch break he’d crept into the school library to get some music to learn to play. Boys with ripped jeans and a 1.80 GPA didn’t frequent the stuffy building very often. But he was on a mission, so he ignored all the shifty glances as he printed off page after page of tab for every song he could think of, and then didn’t even deck any of the squints that were too slow to get out of his way as he left. Three weeks later, (fifteen toasty-warm afternoons in the school music room) he’d mastered every single song on those pages.

The music teacher, Mr Wakefield, the most clichéd hippy-throwback stoner Mickey had ever laid eyes on had tried to take in interest in the pair of them at one point. Mickey supposed that even though the teacher had only been present for two sessions – before he decided that getting blazed in his car was a much better use of his time than the two scruffy drop-kicks – Wakefield had actually contributed pretty significantly to Mickey’s life.

Wakefield, fed-up with both Iggy and Mickey and clearly desperate to go and light up, had dumped a thick book full of sheet music and instruction on top of Mickey’s already dog-eared tab printouts. Then he’d said bluntly, “Tab is for pussies, kid.” before he swanned from the room, leaving only a residual waft of patchouli and bong water.

It was the challenge and insult combined that had such a marked effect on Mickey’s musical path, no Grateful Dead loving pacifist was going to think _him_ a pussy.

By spring break he’d taught himself how to read sheet music, thanks to the slow-as-fuck school computers and a million lame video tutorials from soft-spoken guys wearing cardigans and sandals with socks. How guitar maintained its ‘cool’ image with those freaks parading about online Mickey would never understand.

 When he and Iggy reached senior year Mickey had branched out from guitar to bass. He’d ended up learning a bit of cello too, just because Iggy reckoned he couldn’t – fuck him. But you wouldn’t get Mickey near one in public without a gun to his head, because there was no way to hold that bow and not look like a complete tool. He’d begun composing original stuff too, though in his opinion “composing” sounded way to cultured for the noise he liked to create. 

For a kid like Mickey – average, over-looked, and generally a bit grubby, there was something very rewarding in the creation of melody. It was a powerful medium – mood altering, memorable, meaningful. All with the tweak of a note and the thrum of a string. And most importantly it was free, poor neighbourhood kids didn’t have many legal options when it came to filling their afternoons. Taped-up pawn shop instruments and time, that’s all the two of them had needed – they’d been so determined to become rock stars.

By the time they were twenty-two however,  both working shitty jobs and gigging together on the strictly armature circuit the rock star dream had been fading – obliterated by early morning starts, insurance payments, and credit checks. That was until they met Terry Milkovich, a brash thirty something with connections to all the right people and star-studded résumé as long as his arm. He’d spent ten years as a tour guitarist, been on stage with nearly every band in Mickey’s favorite iTunes playlist and was now looking to start his own group.

Iggy was Mickey’s golden goose, it was his vocals on a cover of an early White Stripes classic that had Terry handing them his card. A month later the two friends had met the girl who was to be the fourth member of their band, Mandy. A vision in matt-kohl and fishnets. She played the drums like a wild thing and threatened bystanders with a sneer and her dangerously sharp drum sticks. 

Mickey smiled to himself as he remembered those early practices, he’d never really thought he was as talented as the others because to him, bass was simple. Not that it wasn’t often underrated and a bad bassist could definitely ruin your sound, but it was still a relatively simple instrument. It wasn’t until Terry found Mickey’s notebook that playing bass in the corner became his secondary position in the band.

The music Mickey had written was without specific words, generally inspired by a feeling or conversation, or on one occasion, a homeless man’s colorful hat, (Mickey had been pretty stoned that day) but the lyrically minded Iggy didn’t have much trouble giving each piece language. So, with a set list full of original work and Terry at the helm The Viches were soon on the rise.  

It transpired that their whole first album came from Mickey’s notebook, and it wasn’t until a week before its release that Mickey got his first real insight into Terry as a man, rather than Terry as a guitarist. 

 They’d been drinking in their regular bar for most of the evening, it was a bit divey, but close to a lot of performance venues, so worth putting up with. Mickey, who at that point in his life had thought of himself as ‘privately gay’ rather than ‘in the closet’, had made the mistake of turning down the advances of an admittedly attractive, but unfortunately female, sure-thing right in front of Terry.

Mickey could still see the incredulous look on Terry’s face when he’d asked, “Jesus kid, you fuckin’ queer or something?”

Mickey had just shrugged, “Not your fucking business.”

Terry’s expression had gone from incredulous to repulsed. “Faggots,” he spat, “taking over the fuckin’ world,” he shot back the last of his beer and stood, leaning across the table to growl in Mickey’s face, “You better keep that shit locked down, our image isn’t nearly sound enough to deal with a scandal like that.”

‘Scandal’ seemed extreme to Mickey, it wasn’t like being gay was a crime after all, but Terry hadn’t steered them wrong so far and Mickey had no desire to be ‘out’ anyway. Out implied all manner of things he didn’t want to deal with.

As he tapped away on the keyboard in his dark room Mickey wished he’d had the foresight to stand up to Terry that night in the early days, before albums and media releases and mother-fucking Twitter feeds. But he hadn’t, and Terry had gone from bad to worse. It wasn’t just muttered gay slurs thrown into conversation – Mickey could deal with that no problem – but Terry had an overwhelming desire to control every facet of band life: only _he_ spoke to the press, only _he_ confirmed their tour dates and venues, at one point he was even telling Mandy what to wear on stage. The sleazy fuck.

But the real problem had been that Terry knew his shit, every move he made for them was forward, and how do you complain when you’re finally getting the career you’ve dreamed of since you were fourteen?

Mickey looked around his bedroom from where he sat at the desk in the corner. There was soft snoring coming from the lump in his wide bed, and a long pale foot poking out from beneath the rucked up covers. It hung off the end of the mattress, just like always. The foot’s toes twitched irritably, no doubt annoyed to be unprotected from the cool air. Mickey smirked, pleased that he himself was of a nice normal height, and fit comfortably on the bed, unlike a certain snoring freak.

Mickey stood and stretched, he should really turn in too, staying up all night was a young man’s game, and at forty-one he didn’t think he could manage it anymore. He moved to the window, pausing to pull the bedcover down over the exposed foot, and then he knelt on the far corner of the bed to push the wooden window frame open – a pre-sleep cigarette was required. He was down to five a day, a fucking huge achievement as far as Mickey was concerned. Privately, he felt like it was giving in to cut back, basically admitting that he was closer to old than young. But hacking up half a lung most mornings sort of took the fun out of it these days. Christ he’d miss it though, when he finally quit.

With the curtains open the bedroom was lit a little better, framed pictures and record sleeves caught the light and as Mickey tucked his zippo away in his pocket his eyes fell on his old pawn shop guitar. He’d had it mounted years ago because it represented so much, not just as his first instrument, but it was a symbol of the day everything had really changed for the better. Mickey blew out a stream of smoke as he remembered….


	2. Horse Piss By The Dozen

**_June 13 th 2007 _ **

For a man wearing naught but a low-slung black guitar and a cigarette hanging from his bottom lip Mickey felt strangely unexposed. Even when the breeze from the open window wafted across his bare ass.

Mickey was quite accustomed to using his guitar as a shield, though perhaps not in such a literal sense as it was today. Normally it was merely part of the metaphor for the thing he was on stage; an unrelenting bass line sporting a mix of torn denim and flannel, who only occasionally emerged from an ever-present cloud of cigarette smoke. The press called him an enigma. Mandy and Iggy insisted he was just a surly fucker. They knew him so well.

Today however, _surly_ didn’t quite cut it.

Even for up and coming rock stars it wasn’t normal to play ones guitar stark-bollocking-naked, in the middle of the afternoon. He was only breaking from the constant rapid strumming to chug back yet another lukewarm can of Iggy’s bad-taste beer pick of the week. They’d been left on his coffee table two days ago, for good reason it turned out; horse-piss came by the dozen these days apparently.  He glared moodily at his switched off phone as he cracked open another one anyway, Horse-piss or not, a man needed something to drink while he waited for his world to implode.

Beer downed and can crushed, Mickey’s hands went back to the strings of his old guitar. He’d had the instrument for ten years now, since he was a freshman in high school. His fingertips knew every little nick and bump up the neck, they anticipated the way the third string always managed to loosen itself somehow, he expected the slight drag of a partially peeling Dead Kennedys sticker across the inside of his forearm when he thumbed the strings. The piece of junk would never handle a stage performance these days, but it was still his most valued possession.   

Mickey dragged deeply on his cigarette, closing one eye as the rising smoke curled into it, it stung a bit, but seven beers in he didn’t really care. He concentrated on the fiddly change from bridge to chorus on his current work-in-progress, but fumbled it anyway, “ _Fucking cunt_.” he growled, starting the sequence again. Even this, the thing loved most, was unable to stop him rehashing the dumbass decision he’d made last night. It hadn’t seemed so bad at the time, but any decision that leads to Terry-homohater-Milkovich snapping a picture of you while your dick is in another guy’s mouth is obviously an awful one.

They’d played a great set last night, close to perfect. The crowd had been insane, and after they got off stage there were party favours everywhere. It was their last show in a string of fifteen before a two week break and they were going celebrate. Three a.m. came and went, and the club they found themselves in was packed, the music throbbed, and there were half-naked people in all directions. Mickey had been innocently enjoying his substance induced haze by admiring the very hot guy leaning on the bar not far away, and for once not feeling guilty about it.

Mickey staying firmly in the closet was best for everyone, or that’s what Terry as the overbearing voice of the band insisted. Mickey doubted Mandy would care, she’d probably just ask a million questions about the mechanics of man-love. Iggy might be a bit weird about it at first, but in the end would just be glad of less ‘competition’ for groupie-ass, as if that was even an issue for him. But Terry was the biggest homophobe Mickey had ever met. Mickey was pretty conscious about not wanting to wreck a good thing however, and this band was definitely a good thing. Album sales were through the roof for a band on an independent label, and critics were comparing their sudden break out to that of the Ramones three decades earlier. None of them wanted to fuck this up.

Well… that was until Mickey got himself cornered by the hot guy from the bar while on his way to the bathroom. He found that even though he didn’t want to risk their image and success, at that moment in time his boozy brain wanted a hummer more than anything else on earth. He’d had the presence of mind to suggest the alley out the back rather than the restroom where anyone could see them, but in hindsight pubic sex was just a fucking terrible idea.

Mickey supposed he should just be thankful that it _was_ Terry who stumbled out into the alley with his phone in hand, instead of being caught by a fan, or worse, a pap. Not that they were really famous enough for press ambush yet, it was rare for Mickey to even get recognised if he wasn’t with one of the others – something he was actually pretty happy about.  

So now Mickey stood, still pretty ripped from the night before, dousing himself in beer after beer, and pelting out any fucking song he could remember the chords to, whether it be a Viches original or Buddy-fucking-Holly. All to avoid dwelling on the impending likelihood of him being booted from the band for not sticking to the rules.

It was Mandy who banged his door down an hour or so later holding her phone with an image open on the screen and scowling at him, he expected her to react to his nudity but she seemed more horrified by his musical choice. “Are you seriously playing _Don’t Fear The Reaper_?” she shouted over the noise.

His fingertips slipped on the fret board as he realised she was right. He stuck his middle finger up at her, “Fuck off.” he instructed bluntly.

 “If this didn’t prove you’re bent,” she said, as she brandished the phone and its grainy photograph in his face, “that shitty ass song does.”

He shrugged, managing to maintain an unaffected expression. His face felt pretty numb from the previous twenty four hours of drinking anyway, so he doubted he’d be able to look shocked even if he wanted to. He was a little surprised that Terry had outed him to Mandy… he wondered if Iggy knew too now. A momentary wash of relief flooded him, but he immediately felt guilty for it. He should have had the guts to tell both of them himself.

“Do you really not care?” Mandy asked incredulously, “Caught getting head from a rent-boy in an alley? Could you get anymore sleazy?”

“Fuck off,” he sneered again to cover his surprise.

_Rent-boy?_ Mickey thought confusedly _,_ _Surely not … I didn’t pay him if he was… didn’t even get a happy ending anyway._ He shook himself mentally, trying to focus on Mandy rather than doing hooker-math in his head for payment of partial services rendered …. _Was that even a thing?_ None of it was really relevant now though.

Mickey scowled at Mandy and said pointedly, “If it was a chick on her knees Terry would just call it ‘Rock and Roll’ and shake my hand, hell, he’d probably line up for his turn and offer to pay the fucking bill.”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t a chick.” Mandy shot back furiously, her fine eyebrows were ached high and surprisingly her eyes held something like hurt. Mickey realized then that she wasn’t even angry that he was gay, just gutted that he hadn’t told her.

He shrugged again, extra pissed at himself for screwing up in one of the only functional relationships he had, Mandy was like the terrifying little sister he’d never knew he needed. She still stood looking daggers at him, and even the alcohol dulling his conscience didn’t prevent the cringing shame he felt for letting her down. Trying not to make it worse he plucked out the first few notes of an old Seattle song that could explain better than his drunken mouth would be able too.

Mandy’s eyes narrowed as the familiar tune washed over them, “Don’t try a woo me with Kurt, you fucker,” she said sternly, but it seemed she couldn’t resist singing the opening lines anyway, _“What else should I be … all apologies…”_

She glared at him then, and he just twitched an eyebrow up in return, refusing to look away.

Mandy broke first, she snatched a crushed beer can from the floor and threw it at him in exasperation. It hit him smack in the middle of his chest and the sharp aluminium edges hurt more than he would have expected it to. Then she turned on her heel, her long multi-colored hair fanning out around her as she went, “Melodramatic douche-bag!” she proclaimed, loudly enough that Mrs Upstairs probably heard her. Then Mandy was gone, his apartment door slammed and Mickey wondered how she even got in in the first place.

* * *

 

In his own gruff way, Terry Milkovich cared about the three young members of his band, and not just for their earning potential. There was a kind of legacy, almost paternal pride to the way he felt about them. Both Mandy and Iggy were his little stars, pulled from obscurity by his talent spotting eye, he’d known within minutes of seeing them perform that they would be big.

But the complete surprise was Mickey, when they’d met for the first time the kid had looked like he should be running girls, or drugs, or just being a general menace to society somewhere in the low-income neighbourhoods of America. He had a massive chip on his shoulder about pretty much everything, and wasn’t able to form a sentence that didn’t contain the word fuck or one of its many subsidiaries. Not that Terry was a paragon of virtue in any sense, but he was better at hiding his rough edges than Mickey was.

The two of them had a strange relationship, they had always been at odds. Terry had a feeling that the similarities between them bothered the younger guy, because there was definitely a few of those; difficult upbringing, a propensity for distrust, the tendency to resort to solving problems with a snarl and a head butt. They could have got on like a house on fire… if Mickey hadn’t insisted on being a fag.

Two years ago when Terry had first formed his band, Mickey had more or less come along with Iggy. He was a decent player but Terry hadn’t been particularly attached to him, there hadn’t been the complete certainty he felt with the other two about his potential. It turned out that was because Terry had had no idea of Mickey’s true talent. Hidden away in a creased and worn notebook was Mickey’s private genius.

Terry was confident in his own musical skill-set, he knew he was excellent guitarist, that he had a presence on stage that couldn’t be taught. But he could recognize that he was limited too, there was no creation, or artistic talent in him, and this gave Mickey a power he didn’t even realize he had. Terry was careful not to praise the young man’s work too highly because he had to treat Mickey’s composition ability with caution. They’d released two successful records in two years; thirty A-side quality songs that had poured out of the bassist like it was the easiest thing in the world. If Mickey ever got an inkling of how very impressive and rare a skill like his was, Terry had no doubt that his own position as driving force behind The Viches would be in jeopardy.

But then there was Mickey’s proclivity for cock, something that Terry personally found unnatural and revolting. He knew that times had changed since he himself was growing up in the nineteen-eighties – people seemed to accept everything no matter how fucked up these days – but he just couldn’t stomach it. He didn’t want his precious band to become ‘ _the one with the gay guy.’_ The press would want to talk about it and Mickey was terrible with the media as it was, he’d just tell them all to fuck off. Then Terry would be left to handle it, and he wasn’t willing to make excuses for something as taboo in his mind as homosexuality.

With always being so conscious of Mickey and his potential to ruin what Terry had built, Terry had developed a sort of sixth sense when it came to the bassist. He always just _knew_ when the kid was about to do something stupid. This was the reason Terry had got up from his seat when Mickey tripped off toward the bathroom in the club last night… he’d been doing it for the boy’s own good.

Not to mention he hadn’t liked the way that poser in the tight shirt had pushed himself away from the bar when Mickey passed him.  After slamming all the stalls open in the men’s and not finding Mickey anywhere, Terry shoved his way out of the bathroom, ignoring all the pissed off exclamations as he went.

It was then that Terry had caught a glimpse through the coat-check window of an open side door, and the dark alley beyond. Following his gut he had stormed through the racks of coats, sneering at the overly made-up girl with her book of ticket stubs who protested that he really wasn’t supposed to be back there. He banged his way out the door, and looked up and down the alley.

 Terry was furious when he spotted them. Just as he’d thought, his bassist and the poser standing too near to each other to be coincidence, and even as he watched, the poser dropped to his knees, his fingers going straight to Mickey’s fly. Terry dug out his phone and flipped on the camera, “Oi!” He called as the flash went off, Mickey looked around in horror, and Terry pressed the capture button again, “I could have been a pap you depraved fuck, cut that shit out!”

The poser on his knees had scrambled to get away, taking off down the alley and out of sight. Mickey was not so fast, pausing to tap a cigarette from his pack and light it before wending his way toward the road at the other end of the alley. He held his middle finger up over his shoulder at Terry as he ambled away. If Terry didn’t know better he’d think the kid looked sad, but he was probably just drunk, with blue-balls to boot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is much appreciated xx


	3. A triple blunt kind of day

No more than six hours after Mandy had stormed into, and then out of, Mickey’s apartment the band met in their hired practice space – the stripped-out third floor in a dated nineteen-sixties style cement monstrosity of an office block. It was large and empty with rugs strewn across the wooden floorboards. Mandy’s drum kit sat in the middle of the room looking small in the open space. Power leads ran in all directions, crisscrossing each other to get from the speakers and amps that were dotted about to the various jack-points on the cement block walls.

The Viches had used this space since the very beginning, when they’d not had extra money for frivolous things. These days they could have easily afforded to practice somewhere better, but the hollow room was part of them … traditional.

Terry had called the meeting, just a text that said: _Meeting, 6pm, hollow room. Be there._

He hadn’t even bothered to pretend they needed to work on something, or just debrief before they had two weeks’ vacation. He might have been overly controlling but Terry didn’t ever lie to them, and since the meeting turned out to be him on a coke-fuelled tirade about the disgustingness of faggots, there really wasn’t a work related reason to give them.

Mickey, who’d had an inkling that he might be facing something like this, was nicely blazed, which had the added benefit of helping fight off his encroaching hangover. He endured the rant directed at him in stony silence while contemplating his situation. He possessed a weird mix of hatred and respect for Terry, he didn’t want to disappoint him, because asshole or not he owed him so much.   

“I told you to keep that unnatural shit locked down,” Terry spat, as he paced up and down in front of the sagging couch Mickey was slumped on. Mickey’s eyes followed his repetitive path, more tense that he would like to admit. Terry was twitchy and irascible, not to mention unpredictable. He’d never been physically violent towards them before, but Mickey thought that was only because it had never been necessary. Now though, he was clearly on the verge of irrational anger, muttering and growling under his breath in between his louder recriminations. Mickey was sure he’d just been called a ‘ _filthy AIDS-monkey_ ,’ which was a new one to him, but his level of respect for Terry sunk a little lower anyway and his own somewhat questionable self-esteem to deflated slightly too.

Mickey wondered if he should point out that Terry had shared joints, bathrooms, and slept in hotel rooms with him for the last two years without ‘contracting’ anything. In fact, Terry was the one who’d been on several courses of penicillin after a hell of a weekend with some pretty iffy-looking groupies. But wisely, Mickey decided a verbal victory wasn’t worth getting beaten to death with his own bass guitar. Terry was shouting again as Mickey’s toasted brain derailed itself and began imagining the ironic headlines that would come from a musician being clubbed to death with a guitar. _Completely Strung Out …_ _Life Ends On Low Note_ … and so on.

Terry was red in the face by this stage, his ashy hair suck up all over the show where he’d run his hands through it in his manic state. He was sweating too, probably from the coke more than anything, “You could destroy us with this! I’ve worked so fucking hard to get us where we are and you go a pull a stunt like this?” he gestured wildly in Mickey’s general direction as he bellowed, “You ungrateful little queer!”

Iggy was watchingwith a cautious look on his face, perched on one of the huge speakers that were arranged near the drum kit. He seemed thoroughly interested in his cigarette as Terry’s vehement fury echoed around their practice room.  Mandy sat on her stool behind the drums, her left leg bounced nervously and she held her sticks so tightly her knuckles were white. Her eyes flicked continually from Mickey to Iggy, as if she was trying to figure something out.

Mickey was regretting having lit his second blunt before coming over here, Terry’s apoplectic rage seemed oddly surreal and all he could think about now was whether he should just quit before he was fired. And also, chips. He didn’t expect Iggy or Mandy to protest too much about him getting the boot, despite long-standing friendship this was purely business. Bassist was a pretty easy position to fill, and they’d only just released their second album so they’d have plenty of time to sort out a song writer for the next one. Mickey was definitely dispensable. Terry on the other hand was an enviable lead guitarist: unflappable on stage, talented as fuck, and had connections to every big name on the scene.

This was why when Terry reached the apex of his fury – hurling a microphone stand into the wall and screaming that he would never let Mickey out in public again, Mickey was shocked when a drumstick flew end over end across the room and whacked Terry hard in the side of the face. The room seemed to still as Mandy’s drumstick fell to the floor, clattering with a brittle finality as it came to rest.

Terry turned on Mandy, incensed and looking quite deranged, “What! You want a curfew too?”

But her bravery against the man that got them where they were had reached its limit, she shook her head. “Don’t,” she said, in a small voice that Mickey had never heard before, Mandy actually sounded frightened. She rolled her stool closer to Iggy as Terry took a step in her direction. It was this that finally forced Mickey’s ire at the bullying cunt through his stoned brain.

“Leave her alone.” he said, angrily, getting to his feet and trying not to focus on the consequences of his next sentence, “I’m fucking sick of your bullshit anyway, you’re a bitter old fuck. I’m out.” He picked up his notebook and bass, and glanced at Iggy as he passed, the tall guy was hunched on the speaker, his eyes apologetic. But he didn’t speak up. It hurt, and yet Mickey didn’t blame him.

“You don’t get to quit!” Terry roared, following him towards the door, “You have a goddamn contract, you jumped-up fairy!”

_Shit_ … he hadn’t thought of that, Mickey paused and one of those crazy late-night ads for unfair-firing randomly flashed through his head, giving him inspiration. He stood taller and sent Terry a withering glare, “I’m pretty fucking sure discrimination in the workplace means– “

“You think you’re making a moral stand here boy?” Terry jeered, interrupting Mickey’s argument, “ _Moral_ to get your dick sucked by some two-bit junkie now is it?” his left eye spasmed manically as he enjoyed the effect his words had on Mickey’s composure, “Do you really want to drag that shit through the papers?”

_Fuck_ , Mickey couldn’t think. _The guy from the club, had he really been on the clock?_ Mickey didn’t even remember what he looked like. _Did it even matter what the truth was?_ A rumour like that would follow him forever.

“You wouldn’t let that leak,” Mickey said, seizing on to a tiny bit of hope, “you’re the one always on about our fucking image.”

“I can spin _anything_ cocksucker,” Terry declared threateningly,  “Like how our disenchanted bassist with a nose full of fairy-dust had a weakness for rent-boys.” His eyes were wide and bloodshot, he looked severely fucked-up. “The Viches though, we’re going to help him through it, give him a second chance, despite the unprofessional behaviour. Pretty mag-fucking-nanimous of us, wouldn’t you say?”

“ _I’m_ the one with a nose full?” Mickey laughed at the irony, but he could see the way the story would unfold – him the broken addict, rehabilitated by the support of Terry and his never ceasing kindness. It was the sort of story people remembered forever, even if it wasn’t true it took years for a label like that to fade. And if he just walked out? Sued no doubt, forced to write jingles for breakfast cereal because Terry would be as bad as his word and no musician would take a risk on Mickey with Terry condemning him in every important ear.

The crashing weight of realisation hit Mickey like a sixteen-wheeler, his whole fucking life he’d wanted to be here, playing good music, writing good music. The only addiction he truly had was to the sound of the crowd when they recognised the intro to one of his songs, that silence amping up into a cheer of anticipation, of appreciation. All because the two-and-a-half minutes of carefully arranged note after note that had come from his pen, his heart, meant something to all those strangers, his creation was part of their life. It was a power trip, the only power trip Mickey had ever known, and he craved it more than any recreational drug.  

Terry could read the bitter acceptance written on Mickey’s face, a gloating leer curled his lip and he leaned further into Mickey’s personal space, “Get it now kid? You don’t get to quit, you fall in line and do what’s best for everyone.”

“Fuck you.” Mickey hissed, hating the man more every second, it was so hard to remember why he shouldn’t hate him right then. Blood was rushing in his ears and he honestly didn’t know if he was going to turn tail and run or deck the bastard.

“You should thank me, you need emotion to fuel your _process_ ,” Terry mocked him, Mickey should probably have been expecting it. “Anger, sexual frustration – you’ll be boiling over with new tunes for the next album,” the derision in his voice made Mickey’s teeth clench together, he knew he should just get out of there before he did something stupid but he’d forgotten how to work his feet. His whole brain was occupied keeping his temper in check, it had no available capacity for something as complicated as walking. And still Terry didn’t realise how close Mickey was to snapping, his tone was still full of that awful condescension as he continued, “I know it’s hard to stay angry at the world when your bank account never dips below five figures, but we can’t have our sound lose its authenticity, can we?”

Mickey sucked in a breath through his gritted teeth and placed his guitar against the wall with exaggerated care. Terry was right about him boiling over, unfortunately for Terry though, channelling the emotion into creative energy was not a viable option. There was scalding hatred blistering through Mickey’s veins, his notebook was rolled up tightly in his left hand, the tendons in his forearm were standing out with the pressure of his grip as he drew another sharp breath.

“Good boy.” Terry said patronizingly, misreading Mickey’s calm actions as surrender. He was actually just putting his guitar down so that he wasn’t temped to use it as a weapon - the fucking thing took forever to retune and he certainly wouldn’t have the patience for that this evening.

Mickey hadn’t hit someone in a long time, not since they’d had security at their shows and he’d moved to a nicer apartment building, but apparently sending your fist into some asshole’s jaw was like riding bike. Muscle memory perhaps, because the angle of his arm, the uncurling tension in his shoulder and the sharp pivot of his hip as he threw his weight into the punch all happened without conscious instruction. The meaty thwack of knuckles hitting flesh and the ricochet through his wrist was something he had forgotten though. It shocked him just a little as Terry’s head snapped back, totally unprepared for the blow.

Out the corner of his eye Mickey saw Iggy jump to his feet, Mandy made a weird shrill noise that sounded almost like a cheer, but he was too distracted by the ferocious snarl on Terry’s livid face to give them another thought.

Terry grabbed him roughly by the front of his shirt, ramming him forcefully into the wall behind him, “You stupid fuck!” he growled as trickle of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth, the sight of it made something in Mickey want to laugh. _Christ, if that wasn’t a bit fucked up_. Terry, who was a head taller and probably twenty pounds heavier than Mickey, shook him violently, “You think this is _funny?”_

Mickey struggled, forcing his hands between their chests to shove Terry off him, but the angle was awkward and took most of his strength. But Terry got the point, he released his grip then and landed a solid breath-stealing punch directly up and under Mickey’s ribs. He doubled over, winded, and then thankfully Iggy was there, pushing his way between them.

“Calm the fuck down, both of you, Jesus!” he stood with his back to Mickey, right on eye-level with Terry, a hand extended to each of them, preventing them coming any closer to each other.

“Needs to learn some goddamn respect,” Terry panted, clearly still riled and trying to take another swipe at Mickey. His jaw was clenched hard, and on the side that wasn’t swelling from contact with Mickey’s knuckles there was a muscle flickering tensely as he ground his teeth. Whether in anger or coked-out side-effect Mickey couldn’t be sure.

“Fuck you.” Mickey said again, unwilling to back down. _So what if Terry was high? So what if I made a bad decision?_ he thought furiously, it was all just a fucking power game to Terry.  Every single instance that Terry had belittled him, called him a fag or an ass-bandit, or whatever other ridiculous name he could come up with, was now parading through Mickey’s head, and the shame each jab was still able to cause just made him madder. “You’d be nothing without your connections,” Mickey said cruelly, slapping Iggy’s restraining arm down so he could reach Terry again, he managed to push him a little but Iggy got in the way again, so Mickey taunted, “Is that why you hate gays so much, had to suck so many cocks to get in with the right crowd? Did you like it a bit too much?”

Terry’s eyes seemed to bulge, and there was a spilt second where Mickey genuinely wondered if he was about to be murdered, then Terry roared like a stuck bull and elbowed Iggy out of the way. He flung a sweeping right hook directly at Mickey’s face, but adrenaline was thundering through Mickey, counteracting the sluggish feeling of his high, and he was able to move just fast enough. He ducked to the side and Terry’s fist met the cement wall behind him with full force and a sickening crunch.

“Fuck,” grunted Terry, freezing and staring in horror at the unyielding wall. Then he jerkily cradled his precious guitar playing hand to his chest. His focus narrowed as he blinked down at his injured hand, appearing to forget Mickey completely. “Fuck.” Terry repeated faintly, trepidation suffusing the oath.

“Oh shit,” Iggy murmured, taking a step closer again, his low voice seemed loud in the sudden thick silence.

Mickey stood upright, dazed by the abrupt change of atmosphere. There was a smear of blood on the wall and Terry’s breathing had gone from heavy with anger to laboured with pain. Mickey peered cautiously at their guitarist’s mangled hand, “Oh shit,” he breathed, echoing Iggy’s concern.

“Hospital,” Mandy interrupted, quickly approaching now that it was clear the fight had gone out of both men, “Let me see, Terry,” she said gently, Mickey didn’t even know she possessed such a peaceful tone, but it was obvious that Terry was in shock, she was clearly trying not to spook him. He didn’t seem to be able to take his eyes away from the injury.

Eventually he extended his arm gingerly, and Mickey winced at the sight, the knuckles at the juncture of his index and middle fingers looked caved in, blood was welling up at a frightening pace, and his middle finger was folded in on itself in a very unnatural way.

“Fuck.” Terry breathed again, as he took in the full extent of the damage he’d done. The word held so much fear that guilt began to flood Mickey’s stomach uncomfortably.

“Terry, I’m –“ Mickey started falteringly, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it - _Sorry for not letting you hit me?_ fuck that.

 Iggy seemed to know what was happening in Mickey’s head, he gave him a little understanding frown and a twitch of his shoulders that said, _it’s his own fault, not yours_.

Mandy shepherded the traumatized Terry out of the room, “He needs this looked at,” she said, still radiating an impressive amount of compassion for a girl with a nose ring and the tendency to shove a drumstick in whatever orifice was available if you fucked her off, “you coming with?”

Iggy nodded and followed on, but Mickey shook his head mutely, he didn’t want to be there when the shock wore off and Terry’s anger at him returned.

Self-preservation was pretty high on Mickey’s list of Important Crap, it was why he put up with Terry’s rules in the first place. Playing straight definitely made his life easier on the surface, and when in the infancy of fame the surface is all that matters. But tonight was proof, a manifestation of the toll Terry’s rules truly took on Mickey, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

The bitterness he felt towards Iggy for having it so easy ate at him daily. How his old friend could actually enjoy the attention from the chicks backstage, rather than feel like he was being assaulted, almost violated, by their advances as Mickey often did, forced to sit there and take it as not to arouse suspicion. He was even more embarrassed by the envy Mandy inspired in him on a regular basis, good-looking guys vying for her attention, whispering filthy promises in her ears and heaping complements on her. Mickey always had to compel himself not to look, not to wish it was him earning such lustful male interest. So fucking pathetic.

Mickey supposed he should just be thankful he’d never met a guy he liked for more than his face or his cock. It would probably be the end of him, knowing that no matter the potential, he’d have to choose The Viches over love, or companionship or whatever the hell you wanted to call it. Christ, he didn’t even think he’d recognize that shit if he was faced with it now. He only ever let enough emotion seep out from his barricaded soul for music, because Terry was right about that, he did need something to draw on to keep the artistic energy flowing, but that was it. He’d seen Mandy and Iggy fall in love with people and then break-up over and over again, it looked too fucking painful to be worth it, and the press was all over that shit these days. It was best avoided.

 But even before The Viches made it big Mickey had been too chicken to actually act on all the messed up fantasies in his head. So now, at twenty-four years old all he really wanted was decent, uncomplicated sex with good looking dudes, but even decent sex was easier said than done. Knowing what someone liked, having someone learn what he liked, that’s where decent sex came from, not from jonesing little twinks in alleys or bathroom stalls. But ‘knowing someone’ smacked of complications and he didn’t have the balls to change things, not yet anyway.  

* * *

 

With his head full of thoroughly depressing bullshit Mickey made his way back to his apartment alone, throwing himself on the couch and lighting up at once. Today, it turned out, was a triple blunt kind of day. As the weed zapped him of the ability to worry about Terry and his guitar playing future he found himself dwelling on their fight. Mickey had a sneaky little bubble of pride floating about inside his chest, he was pleased he’d finally stood up to him, even if the consequences were pretty terrible.

It wasn’t until his high wore off that the magnitude of the day’s events really hit him. He lay on his couch with a heavy weight of concern pressing on him and wishing that his cigarettes were close enough to reach without getting up. They weren’t. He sighed and contemplated the ceiling for a little while, he was still there flat on his back and in a self-pitying stupor when the intercom buzzed.

“Mickey, let us up,” Iggy’s voice echoed scratchily in the quiet room.

“Come on,” Mandy chimed in, “you must be done sulking by now.”

Mickey heaved a sigh, he guessed he should be glad they were here, even if Mandy was a cheeky bitch. There wasn’t anyone else in the world that Mickey actually liked, so without these two he would quite literally be all alone. The three of them probably needed to make a plan to find a temporary replacement for Terry, at least for their stint of local gigs that kicked off in two weeks.

He hauled himself to his feet and trudged across the room, before he reached the intercom however, it buzzed again and Mandy said, “Hurry up jerk-off, we’ve got shit to sort.”

Mickey snorted to himself as he pushed the button to open the downstairs door, he should have known that with Terry laid up Mandy would assume the leadership role. He and Iggy just found it easier not to argue with her. Better than getting a drumstick in the eye at any rate.


End file.
